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13
"SO, WE KISSED."
"Multiple times," Scott cheekily adds, combing his fingers through Camille's short hair.
They've somehow ended up on his bed. The navy-colored bedding contrasts with Camille's pastel, girly clothing, but it blends in perfectly with Scott's dark, punk outfit. That detail doesn't really matter, though, because they've both began to establish that the outer appearance is unimportant. It's their experiences and personality and relationship with each other that connects them. However, the most significant detail about the two of them lying down on his bed is how they're facing each other in an innocently intimate way. A few inches separate the two bodies, but they're still close enough to reach out and touch, or to run one's fingers through the other's hair, or to feel the deep intake and outtake of breath fanning against their cheeks.
"Where do we go from here?" Camille asks, but the answer seems pretty obvious. It's still safe to ask just for reassurance.
"We go from kissing to sex in an alleyway."
"So, we're skipping the small talk?"
He laughs that kind of laugh that starts from deep within his body and gradually makes its way out in low and genuine tumbles, "I thought we already small talked through everything."
She laughs, too, and it's just as beautiful, if not more. Once Camille and Scott quiet down, they're both left in a somber silence, staring at each other -- green eyes on hazel. There's this wonderful revelation that they're both here, made for each other, and they now get to do this all the time. However, Scott still rolls his lower lip into his mouth and averts his eyes, letting his self-consciousness kick in because he's still powerless to the concept. All he can think about is how he'll only make matters worse for Camille and that he's only going to be feeding the rumors at school by making their relationship real and concrete. Scott pretends that he doesn't care about what people think, but goddamnit, he does, and he doesn't know when he'll stop.
"Uh, you don't have to be with me if you don't want to," he quietly says, retracting his hand from her hair, "I--"
"What?" Camille asks by cutting him off, confusion and a slight desperation seeping into her tone, "Why are you suddenly thinking like this?"
"I'm sorry," Scott groans, running his hands over his face, "I only ruin things for you, honestly. Because of me, people left you; people made rumors about you; people now see you in a negative light, and I'm so sorry for fucking everything up."
"Scott," she softly says, removing his hands from his face and really looking at him, "I've told you this once, and I'll keep telling you until you start to believe it: I don't care what people think about me, and you shouldn't either. I'd lose those people a million times if it meant keeping you by my side, Scott. Looks don't define you, and nobody seems to understand that."
